Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 7, May, 1858 by Various

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But if this conceit, in powerful natures, tends to belittle character,
and eat into and consume the very faculties whose successful exercise
creates it, its slyly insinuated venom works swifter and deadlier on
youth and inexperience. The ordinary forms of conceit, it is true,
cannot well flourish in any assemblage of young men, whose plain
interest it is to undeceive all self-deception and quell every
insurrection of individual vanity, and who soon understand the art of
burning the nonsense out of an offending brother by caustic ridicule
and slow-roasting sarcasm. But there is danger of mutual deception,
springing from a common belief in a false, but attractive principle of
culture. The mischief of intellectual conceit in our day consists in its
arresting mental growth at the start by stuffing the mind with the husks
of pretentious generalities, which, while they impart no vital power and
convey no real information, give seeming enlargement to thought, and
represent a seeming opulence of knowledge. The deluded student, who
picks up these ideas in masquerade at the rag-fairs and old-clothes'
shops of philosophy, thinks he has the key to all secrets and the
solvent of all problems, when he really has no experimental knowledge of
anything, and dwindles all the more for every juiceless, unnutritious
abstraction he devours. Though famished for the lack of a morsel of the
true mental food of facts and ideas, he still swaggeringly despises all
relative information in his ambition to clutch at absolute truth, and
accordingly goes directly to ultimates by the short cuts of cheap
generalities. Why, to be sure, should he, who can, Napoleon-like, march
straight on to the interior capital, submit, Marlborough-like, to the
drudgery of besieging the frontier fortresses? Why should he, who can
throw a girdle of generalization round the universe in less than forty
minutes, stoop to master details? And this easy and sprightly amplitude
of understanding, which consists not in including, but in excluding all
relative facts and principles, he calls comprehensiveness; the mental
decrepitude it occasions he dignifies with the appellation of repose;
and, on the strength of comprehensiveness and repose, is of course
qualified to take his seat beside Shakspeare, and chat cosily with
Bacon, and wink knowingly at Goethe, and startle Leibnitz with a slap
on the shoulder,--the true Red-Republican sign of liberty in manners,
equality in power, and fraternity in ideas! These men, to be sure, have
a way of saying things which he has not yet caught; but then their
wide-reaching thoughts are his as well as theirs. Imitating the
condescension of some contemporary philosophers of the Infinite, he
graciously accepts Christianity and patronizes the idea of Deity, though
he gives you to understand that he could easily pitch a generalization
outside of both. And thus, mistaking his slab-sidedness for
many-sidedness, and forgetting that there is no insight without force
to back it,--bedizened in conceit and magnificent in littleness,--he is
thrown on society, walking in a vain show of knowledge, and doomed to
be upset and trampled on by the first brawny concrete Fact he stumbles
against. A true method of culture makes drudgery beautiful by presenting
a vision of the object to which it leads;--beware of the conceit that
dispenses with it! How much better it is to delve for a little solid
knowledge, and be sure of that, than to be a proper target for such
a sarcasm as a great statesman once shot at a glib advocate, who was
saying nothing with great fluency and at great length! "Who," he asked,
"is this self-sufficient, all-sufficient, insufficient man?"

Idleness and Conceit, however, are not more opposed to that
out-springing, reverential activity which makes the person forget
himself in devotion to his objects, than Fear. A bold heart in a sound
head,--that is the condition of energetic thinking, of the thought that
thinks round things and into things and through things; but fear freezes
activity at its inmost fountains. "There is nothing," says Montaigne,
"that I fear so much as fear." Indeed, an educated man, who creeps
along with an apologetic air, cringing to this name and ducking to that
opinion, and hoping that it is not too presumptuous in him to beg the
right to exist,--why, it is a spectacle piteous to gods and hateful to
men! Yet think of the many knots of monitory truisms in which activity
is likely to be caught and entangled at the outset,--knots which a brave
purpose will not waste time to untie, but instantly cuts. First, there
is the nonsense of students killing themselves by over-study,--some few
instances of which, not traceable to over-eating, have shielded the
short-comings of a million idlers. Next, there is the fear that the
intellect may be developed at the expense of the moral nature,--one of
those truths in the abstract which are made to do the office of lies in
the application, and which are calculated not so much to make good men
as _goodies_,--persons rejoicing in an equal mediocrity of morals and
mind, and pertinent examples of the necessity of personal force to
convert moral maxims into moral might. The truth would seem to be, that
half the crimes and sufferings which history records and observation
furnishes are directly traceable to want of thought rather than to bad
intention; and in regard to the other half, which may be referred to
the remorseless selfishness of unsanctified intelligence, has that
selfishness ever had more valuable allies and tools than the mental
torpor that cannot think and the conscientious stupidity that will not?
Moral laws, indeed, are intellectual facts, to be investigated as
well as obeyed; and it is not a blind or blear-eyed conscience, but a
conscience blended with intelligence and consolidated with character,
that can both see and act.

But curtly dismissing the fallacy, that the moral and spiritual
faculties are likely to find a sound basis in a cowed and craven reason,
we come to a form of fear that practically paralyzes independent thought
more than any other, while it is incompatible with manliness and
self-respect. This fear is compounded of self-distrust and that mode
of vanity which cowers beneath the invective of men whose applause it
neither courts nor values. If you examine critically the two raging
parties of conservatism and radicalism, you will find that a goodly
number of their partisans are men who have not chosen their position,
but have been bullied into it,--men who see clearly enough that both
parties are based on principles almost equally true in themselves,
almost equally false by being detached from their mutual relations. But
then each party keeps its professors of intimidation and stainers of
character, whose business it is to deprive men of the luxury of large
thinking, and to drive all neutrals into their respective ranks. The
missiles hurled from one side are disorganizer, infidel, disunionist,
despiser of law, and other trumpery of that sort; from the other side,
the no less effective ones of murderer, dumb dog, traitor to humanity,
and other trumpery of that sort; and the young and sensitive student
finds it difficult to keep the poise of his nature amid the cross-fire
of this logic of fury and rhetoric of execration, and too often ends in
joining one party from fear, or the other from the fear of being
thought afraid. The probability is, that the least danger to his mental
independence will proceed from any apprehension he may entertain of what
are irreverently styled the "old fogies"; for if Young America goes on
at its present headlong rate, there is little doubt that the old fogy
will have to descend from his eminence of place, become an object of
pathos rather than terror, and be compelled to make the inquiring appeal
to his brisk hunters, so often made to himself in vain, "Am I not a man
and a brother?" But with whatever association, political or moral, the
thinker may connect himself, let him go in,--and not be dragged in or
scared in. He certainly can do no good to himself, his country, or his
race, by being the slave and echo of the heads of a clique. Besides,
as most organizations are constituted on the principles of a sort of
literary socialism, and each member lives and trades on a common capital
of phrases, there is danger that these phrases may decline from signs
into substitutes of thought, and both intellect and character evaporate
in words. Thus, a man may be a Union man and a National man, or an
Anti-Slavery man and a Temperance man and a Woman's-Rights' man, and
still be very little of a man. There is, indeed, no more ludicrous sight
than to see Mediocrity, perched on one of these resounding adjectives,
strut and bluster, and give itself braggadocio airs, and dictate to all
quiet men its maxims of patriotism or morality, and all the while be
but a living illustration through what grandeurs of opinion essential
meanness and poverty of soul will peer and peep and be disclosed. To be
a statesman or reformer requires a courage that dares defy dictation
from any quarter, and a mind which has come in direct contact with the
great inspiring ideas of country and humanity. All the rest is spite,
and spleen; and cant, and conceit, and words.

It is plain, of course, that every man of large and living thought will
naturally sympathize with those great social movements, informing
and reforming, which are the glory of the age; but it must always be
remembered that the grand and generous sentiments that underlie those
movements demand in their fervid disciple a corresponding grandeur and
generosity of soul. There is no reason why his philanthropy should be
malignant because other men's conservatism may be stupid; and the vulgar
insensibility to the rights of the oppressed, and the vulgar scorn of
the claims of the wretched, which men calling themselves respectable and
educated may oppose to his own warmer feelings and nobler principles,
should be met, not with that invective which may be as vulgar as the
narrowness it denounces, nor always with that indignation which is
righteous as well as wrathful, but with that awful contempt with which
Magnanimity shames meanness, simply by the irony of her lofty example
and the sarcasm of her terrible silence.

In these remarks, which we trust our readers have at least been kind
enough to consider worthy of an effort of patience, we have attempted to
connect all genuine intellectual success with manliness of character;
have endeavored to show that force of individual being is its primary
condition; that this force is augmented and enriched, or weakened and
impoverished, according as it is or is not directed to appropriate
objects; that indolence, conceit, and fear present continual checks to
this going out of the mind into glad and invigorating communion with
facts and laws; and that as a man is not a mere bundle of faculties,
but a vital person, whose unity pervades, vivifies, and creates all
the varieties of his manifestation, the same vices which enfeeble and
deprave character tend to enfeeble and deprave intellect. But perhaps we
have not sufficiently indicated a diseased state of consciousness, from
which most intellectual men have suffered, many have died, and all
should be warned,--the disease, namely, of mental disgust, the sign and
the result of mental debility. Mental disgust "sicklies o'er" all the
objects of thought, extinguishes faith in exertion, communicates a dull
wretchedness to indolence in the very process by which it makes activity
impossible, and drags into its own slough of despond, and discolors with
its own morbid reveries, the objects which it should ardently seek and
genially assimilate. It sees things neither as they are, nor as they are
glorified and transfigured by hope and health and faith; but, in the
apathy of that idling introspection which betrays a genius for misery,
it pronounces effort to be vanity, and despairingly dismisses knowledge
as delusion. "Despair," says Donne, "is the damp of hell; rejoicing is
the serenity of heaven."

Now contrast this mental disgust, which proceeds from mental debility,
with the sunny and soul-lifting exhilaration radiated from mental
vigor,--a vigor which comes from the mind's secret consciousness that it
is in contact with moral and spiritual verities, and is partaking of the
rapture of their immortal life. A spirit earnest, hopeful, energetic,
inquisitive, making its mistakes minister to wisdom, and converting the
obstacles it vanquishes into power,--a spirit inspired by a love of the
excellency and beauty of knowledge, which will not let it sleep,--such
a spirit soon learns that the soul of joy is hid in the austere form of
Duty, and that the intellect becomes brighter, keener, clearer, more
buoyant, and more efficient, as it feels the freshening vigor infused
by her monitions and menaces, and the celestial calm imparted by her
soul-satisfying smile. In all the professions and occupations over which
Intellect holds dominion, the student will find that there is no grace
of character without its corresponding grace of mind. He will find that
virtue is an aid to insight; that good and sweet affections will bear a
harvest of pure and high thoughts; that patience will make the intellect
persistent in plans which benevolence will make beneficent in results;
that the austerities of conscience will dictate precision to statements
and exactness to arguments; that the same moral sentiments and moral
power which regulate the conduct of life will illumine the path and
stimulate the purpose of those daring spirits eager to add to the
discoveries of truth and the creations of art. And he will also find
that this purifying interaction of spiritual and mental forces will give
the mind an abiding foundation of joy for its starts of rapture and
flights of ecstasy;--a joy, in whose light and warmth languor and
discontent and depression and despair will be charmed away;--a joy,
which will make the mind large, generous, hopeful, aspiring, in order to
make life beautiful and sweet;--a joy, in the words of an old
divine, "which will put on a more glorious garment above, and be joy
superinvested in glory!"

LOO LOO.

A FEW SCENES FROM A TRUE HISTORY.

SCENE I.

Alfred Noble had grown up to manhood among the rocks and hills of a New
England village. A year spent in Mobile, employed in the duties of a
clerk, had not accustomed him to the dull routine of commercial life. He
longed for the sound of brooks and the fresh air of the hills. It was,
therefore, with great pleasure that he received from his employer a
message to be conveyed to a gentleman who lived in the pleasantest
suburb of the city. It was one of those bright autumnal days when the
earth seems to rejoice consciously in the light that gives her beauty.

Leaving behind him the business quarter of the town, he passed through
pleasant streets bordered with trees, and almost immediately found
himself amid scenes clothed with all the freshness of the country.
Handsome mansions here and there dotted the landscape, with pretty
little parks, enclosing orange-trees and magnolias, surrounded with
hedges of holly, in whose foliage numerous little foraging birds were
busy in the sunshine. The young man looked at these dwellings with
an exile's longing at his heart. He imagined groups of parents and
children, brothers and sisters, under those sheltering roofs, all
strangers to him, an orphan, alone in the world. The pensiveness of
his mood gradually gave place to more cheerful thoughts. Visions of
prosperous business and a happy home rose before him, as he walked
briskly toward the hills south of the city. The intervals between the
houses increased in length, and he soon found himself in a little forest
of pines. Emerging from this, he came suddenly in sight of an elegant
white villa, with colonnaded portico and spacious verandas. He
approached it by a path through a grove, the termination of which had
grown into the semblance of a Gothic arch, by the interlacing of two
trees, one with glossy evergreen leaves, the other yellow with the tints
of autumn. Vines had clambered to the top, and hung in light festoons
from the branches. The foliage, fluttering in a gentle breeze, caused
successive ripples of sun-flecks, which chased each other over trunks
and boughs, and joined in wayward dance with the shadows on the ground.

Arrested by this unusual combination of light and shade, color and form,
the young man stood still for a moment to gaze upon it. He was thinking
to himself that nothing could add to the perfection of its beauty, when
suddenly there came dancing under the arch a figure that seemed like the
fairy of those woods, a spirit of the mosses and the vines. She was a
child, apparently five or six years old, with large brown eyes, and a
profusion of dark hair. Her gypsy hat, ornamented with scarlet ribbons
and a garland of red holly-berries, had fallen back on her shoulders,
and her cheeks were flushed with exercise. A pretty little white dog was
with her, leaping up eagerly for a cluster of holly-berries which she
playfully shook above his head. She whirled swiftly round and round the
frisking animal, her long red ribbons flying on the breeze, and then she
paused, all aglow, swaying herself back and forth, like a flower on its
stem. A flock of doves, as if attracted toward her, came swooping down
from the sky, revolving in graceful curves above her head, their white
breasts glistening in the sunshine. The aerial movements of the child
were so full of life and joy, she was so in harmony with the golden day,
the waving vines, and the circling doves, that the whole scene seemed
like an allegro movement in music, and she a charming little melody
floating through it all.

Alfred stood like one enchanted. He feared to speak or move, lest the
fairy should vanish from mortal presence. So the child and the dog,
equally unconscious of a witness, continued their graceful gambols for
several minutes. An older man might have inwardly moralized on the folly
of the animal, aping humanity in thus earnestly striving after what
would yield no nourishment when obtained. But Alfred was too young and
too happy to moralize. The present moment was all-sufficient for him,
and stood still there in its fulness, unconnected with past or future.
This might have lasted long, had not the child been attracted by the
dove-shadows, and, looking up to watch the flight of the birds, her eyes
encountered the young man. A whole heart full of sunshine was in the
smile with which he greeted her. But, with a startled look, she turned
quickly and ran away; and the dog, still full of frolic, went bounding
by her side. As Alfred tried to pursue them, a bough knocked off his
hat. Without stopping to regain it, he sprang over a holly-hedge, and
came in view of the veranda of a house, just in time to see the fairy
and her dog disappear behind a trellis covered with the evergreen
foliage of the Cherokee rose. Conscious of the impropriety of pursuing
her farther, he paused to take breath. As he passed his hand through his
hair, tossed into masses by running against the wind, he heard a voice
from the veranda exclaim,--

"Whither so fast, Loo Loo? Come here, Loo Loo!"

Glancing upward, he saw a patrician-looking gentleman, in a handsome
morning-gown, of Oriental fashion, and slippers richly embroidered. He
was reclining on a lounge, with wreaths of smoke floating before him;
but seeing the stranger, he rose, and taking the amber-tubed cigar from
his mouth, he said, half laughing,--

"You seem to be in hot haste, Sir. Pray, what have you been hunting?"

Alfred also laughed, as he replied,--

"I have been chasing a charming little girl, who would not be caught.
Perhaps she was your daughter, Sir?"

"She _is_ my daughter," rejoined the gentleman. "A pretty little witch,
is she not? Will you walk in, Sir?"

Alfred thanked him, and said that he was in search of a Mr. Duncan,
whose residence was in that neighborhood.

"I am Mr. Duncan," replied the patrician. "Jack, go and fetch the
gentleman's hat, and bring cigars."

A negro obeyed his orders, and, after smoking awhile on the veranda, the
two gentlemen walked round the grounds.

Once when they approached the house, they heard the pattering of little
feet, and Mr. Duncan called out, with tones of fondness,--

"Come here, Loo Loo! Come, darling, and see the gentleman who has been
running after you!"

But the shy little fairy ran all the faster, and Alfred saw nothing but
the long red ribbons of her gypsy hat, as they floated behind her on the
wind.

Declining a polite invitation to dine, he walked back to the city. The
impression on his mind had been so vivid, that, as he walked, there rose
ever before him a vision of that graceful arch with waving vines, the
undulating flight of the silver-breasted doves, and the airy motions of
that beautiful child. How would his interest in the scene have deepened,
could some sibyl have foretold to him how closely the Fates had
interwoven the destinies of himself and that lovely little one!

When he entered the counting-room, he found his employer in close
conversation with Mr. Grossman, a wealthy cotton-broker. This man was
but little more than thirty years of age, but the predominance of animal
propensities was stamped upon his countenance with more distinctness
than is usual with sensualists of twice his age. The oil of a thousand
hams seemed oozing through his pimpled cheeks; his small gray eyes were
set in his head like the eyes of a pig; his mouth had the expression of
a satyr; and his nose seemed perpetually sniffing the savory prophecy
of food. When the clerk had delivered his message, he slapped him
familiarly on the shoulder, and said,--

"So you've been out to Duncan's, have you? Pretty nest there at Pine
Grove, and they say he's got a rare bird in it; but he keeps her so
close, that I could never catch sight of her. Perhaps you got a peep,
eh?"

"I saw a very beautiful child of Mr. Duncan's," replied Alfred, "but I
did not see his wife."

"That's very likely," rejoined Grossman; "because he never had any
wife."

"He said the little girl was his daughter, and I naturally inferred that
he had a wife," replied Alfred.

"That don't follow of course, my gosling," said the cotton-broker.
"You're green, young man! You're green! I swear, I'd give a good deal
to get sight of Duncan's wench. She must be devilish handsome, or he
wouldn't keep her so close."

Alfred Noble had always felt an instinctive antipathy to this man, who
was often letting fall some remark that jarred harshly with his romantic
ideas of women,--something that seemed to insult the memories of a
beloved mother and sister gone to the spirit-world. But he had never
liked him less than at this moment; for the sly wink of his eye, and
the expressive leer that accompanied his coarse words, were very
disagreeable things to be associated with that charming vision of the
circling doves and the innocent child.

SCENE II.

Time passed away, and with it the average share of changing events.
Alfred Noble became junior partner in the counting-house he had entered
as clerk, and not long afterward the elder partner died. Left thus
to rely upon his own energy and enterprise, the young man gradually
extended his business, and seemed in a fair way to realize his favorite
dream of making a fortune and returning to the North to marry. The
subject of Slavery was then seldom discussed. North and South seemed
to have entered into a tacit agreement to ignore the topic completely.
Alfred's experience was like that of most New Englanders in his
situation. He was at first annoyed and pained by many of the
peculiarities of Southern society, and then became gradually accustomed
to them. But his natural sense of justice was very strong; and this,
added to the influence of early education, and strengthened by scenes of
petty despotism which he was frequently compelled to witness, led him
to resolve that he would never hold a slave. The colored people in his
employ considered him their friend, because he was always kind and
generous to them. He supposed that comprised the whole of duty, and
further than that he never reflected upon the subject.

The pretty little picture at Pine Grove, which had made so lively
an impression on his imagination, faded the more rapidly, because
unconnected with his affections. But a shadowy semblance of it always
flitted through his memory, whenever he saw a beautiful child, or
observed any unusual combination of trees and vines.

Four years after his interview with Mr. Duncan, business called him to
the interior of the State, and for the sake of healthy exercise he
chose to make the journey on horseback. His route lay mostly through a
monotonous region of sandy plain, covered with pines, here and there
varied by patches of cleared land, in which numerous dead trees were
prostrate, or standing leafless, waiting their time to fall. Most of
the dwellings were log-houses, but now and then the white villa of some
wealthy planter might be seen gleaming through the evergreens. Sometimes
the sandy soil was intersected by veins of swamp, through which muddy
water oozed sluggishly, among bushes and dead logs. In these damp places
flourished dark cypresses and holly-trees, draped with gray Spanish
moss, twisted around the boughs, and hanging from them like gigantic
cobwebs. Now and then, the sombre scene was lighted up with a bit of
brilliant color, when a scarlet grosbeak flitted from branch to branch,
or a red-headed woodpecker hammered at the trunk of some old tree, to
find where the insects had intrenched themselves. But nothing pleased
the eye of the traveller so much as the holly-trees, with their glossy
evergreen foliage, red berries, and tufts of verdant mistletoe. He
had been riding all day, when, late in the afternoon, an uncommonly
beautiful holly appeared to terminate the road at the bend where it
stood. Its boughs were woven in with a cypress on the other side, by
long tangled fringes of Spanish moss. The setting sun shone brightly
aslant the mingled foliage, and lighted up the red berries, which
glimmered through the thin drapery of moss, like the coral ornaments of
a handsome brunette seen through her veil of embroidered lace. It was
unlike the woodland picture he had seen at Pine Grove, but it recalled
it to his memory more freshly than he had seen it for a long time. He
watched the peculiar effects of sunlight, changing as he approached the
tree, and the desire grew strong within him to have the fairy-like child
and the frolicsome dog make their appearance beneath that swinging
canopy of illuminated moss. If his nerves had been in such a state that
forms in the mind could have taken outward shape, he would have realized
the vision so distinctly painted on his imagination. But he was well and
strong; therefore he saw nothing but a blue heron flapping away among
the cypresses, and a flock of turkey-buzzards soaring high above the
trees, with easy and graceful flight. His thoughts, however, continued
busy with the picture that had been so vividly recalled. He recollected
having heard, some time before, of Mr. Duncan's death, and he queried
within himself what had become of that beautiful child.

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